


Dogs and Kings

by beehive_amaretto



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Arthur Morgan Origins, Awkward Tension, Bandits & Outlaws, Before Blackwater, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fictional Places, Light Angst, Original Character(s), POV Original Female Character, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Slow Burn, Swearing, Young Arthur Morgan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26572012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beehive_amaretto/pseuds/beehive_amaretto
Summary: Then, a loud crash and sharp clatter of shattering glass shocked Sol, who collapsed onto the staircase. A shriek caught in her throat. Her heart raced too fast to match her breathing. What the hell was that?! She tried to keep quiet as she struggled to focus on the noise in the shop not quite yet below her. It sounded like a mass of groans and curses dragging closer to the walkway Sol was mere seconds ago. She kept as low to the staircase as she could and hoped that she blended in with the wood.The figure made itself clear in the same glow where her own mother stood earlier that afternoon - a burly man with brown hair, doubling over what looked like a hurt leg, one arm on it, the other one reaching out to support himself. Sol managed to catch weary, blue eyes of the man, whose face was shrouded otherwise by a tattered bandana. And as soon as she caught herself gazing at him from the shadows, he stared back, a revolver pointing directly at her.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 26





	1. The Wheel of Fortune (Upright)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all! Thanks so much for clicking on this! This is my first fanfiction in... over a literal decade (& uh, we don't talk about that one) so I'm excited to be trying my hand at it again for a game I love so, so much! I'm hoping that four years of creative writing courses & a degree in writing don't fail me now~
> 
> Just so y'all are aware before you head into this story:  
> ❖ this fanfic will be broken up into two parts: this first one takes place in 1887, where our protagonist will meet a broody, handsome, but younger Arthur Morgan. A lot of this is made up in my brain as much as I could (since, as far as I know, there isn't much to know on the origins of Arthur outside of what is mentioned in-game) so I will try my best to not go super out of character as that usually irks me a lot... The second part will be in 1899, but a while after the game starts. That will follow plot as best as I can without detracting from major events, and... You shall see when we get there~  
> ❖ the protagonist is a young woman named Marisol "Sol" Avilés, who is sixteen at the start of this story. She is the daughter of a pair of Spanish immigrants who fled an island near Guarma in pursuit of a better life.  
> ❖ because Sol & her family are immigrants, there will be some Spanish words & phrases here & there. I will add notes at the end of each chapter when needed including translations so you don't have to Google search on a different tab!  
> ❖ sorry the tags are so bare (as of September 21, 2020)! I will edit as I go - I have a pretty good idea of what I want to happen in this story, but sometimes the specifics change in my brain, so I don't want to add things that I'm not sure about yet & then have y'all be disappointed when it ends up not happening.  
> ❖ I am a full-fledged adult who works a day job! I will try my best to update this as much as I can, but there is only so much a girl can do when she comes back from working with kids all day... I am posting this chapter as a prologue to better things & I will try my damndest to update more than once every three or four weeks, but... yaknow. I'm only one person~
> 
> That's all I can think to mention right now. Thanks again for making it this far! I hope you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❖ early March, 1887
> 
> ✳SOL, HARMSTEAD, & WESTHAVEN ARE FICTIONAL. ANYTHING RED DEAD REDEMPTION RELATED BELONGS TO ROCKSTAR✳

change - cycles - inevitable fate

✳ ❖ ✳

_Canned peaches, canned corned beef, canned salmon, canned peaches again…_

"Marisol! _Mija,_ are you listening to me?"

Hearing her name shook Sol out of her stupor and snapped her back into reality. She blinked hard, trying to shake off her daydream.

"Sorry, mamá," she said, not used to hearing anything that's not her nickname. She rubbed her eyes as if that would ground her back to Earth faster. "Can you repeat that one more time? Inventory makes it hard to focus."

Sol's mother sighed, running her hand through her salt and pepper hair. Sol knew her mother just arrived back to the shop from cleaning the hotel across the road in Harmstead. She needed to pay attention more to save her mother the trouble, but nothing truly bored her more than counting cans. Drifting into daydreams naturally came with the territory.

"Now I'm worrying about leaving you alone for a few days. Maybe your papá can go to Westhaven alone and I'll stay here with you," her heavy Spanish accent peeking through some of her vowels. Her mother leaned against the doorway to their home upstairs and cupped her forehead so her thumb and two longer fingers could massage her temples.

Jolted by her mother's hesitance, Sol quickly leaned forward from her stool. "No!" Sol yelped. She grabbed her mother's free hand, causing the middle-aged woman to look quizzically at her teenage daughter stretching to touch her. "I'll be fine, mamá, I promise. Today was a long day, but I'll be fine while you're gone. Honest." She wasn’t lying; Sol worked more hours than usual at the shop instead of helping her mother in the hotel. Her father couldn't man it since he left early in the morning to wrap up his own errands at his second job, so Sol felt compelled to lighten her mother's load as much as she could.

Sol was close enough to her mother to see her freckles in the soft glow of the hanging lamp in the hallway. When her mother smiled, crow's feet revealed themselves next to her eyes, and she gently held Sol's hand back and stroked it back with her thumb.

"That's what I thought. Just wanted to wake you up a little bit, Mari," she giggled. Only her parents called her Mari. Sol couldn't tell which of her names she preferred more. Her mother patted the wood of the doorway before disappearing to the other side of the opening, her footsteps awakening the creaky, wooden planks Sol knew led to the cash register. A sharp "ding!" cleared the remaining clouds out from around her head.

"As I was saying," her mother continued, the sound of coins jingling in her hands filled the otherwise quiet, dusty room. "I don’t think you're going to get many customers tomorrow, since it's Sunday." Her mother's accent flourished more now that she seemed comfortable. Sol was used to her mother masking her accent as much as she could when she worked with clients - something about not causing trouble if she could avoid it. Picking up where she left off before she dozed off unintentionally, Sol continued to count cans in the back of the shop, ruminating on the fact that her own accent will never sound like her mother's. "I'm leaving some money here for the rest of the day," her mother said from the other room. Sol heard her count in Spanish and shuffle some dollars around. The register closed with a loud "click!" and Sol moved to another shelf that didn't involve cans, thank God. She began counting the bottles of brandy when her mother walked back to the doorway, this time with a leather money bag. "I'm putting the rest in here, yeah? You keep it on you at all times, and when you wrap up for the night, you--"

"--I lock all the doors and windows, then take the money out of the register and lock it in the safe under your bed. I know," Sol said without taking her eyes off the brandy bottles. Eleven, twelve, thirteen... "You're aware I've been alone before, right?"

"Ah, yes yes, of course, _pero_ this is multiple days, you're sixteen... I just want to make sure that you remember to be safe."

Sol shot her a look of annoyance. "Ma, I am always safe."

" _Sí_ , yes, I know." Sol understood that her mother was letting the conversation go; her mother walked over and slipped the money bag into Sol's apron pocket. Sol felt the weight of dollars and coins sink and she slipped her hand to grab it before it pulled her loose apron further. "Well, that's all I had to say. Just wanted to go over things again to keep it fresh in that smart brain of yours," her mother said with a smile. She reached her hand out to touch Sol's cheek. Her mother's hands always felt cool and dry, even on days like today - sweltering, oppressive, not very typical for early March on the east coast.

Sol couldn't be irritated at her. She stood and hugged her mother, wrapping her arms around the woman who was slightly taller only because of the heels in her boots. She nestled her face into her mother's curly hair and took a breath as her mother squeezed her back. The scent of cloves and lemongrass mixed with cheap perfume circled inside her head. After a moment, she loosened her embrace and looked at her mother. "Don't worry about me. You already have enough on your hands, dealing with papá."

That got a sigh out of her mother, who waved her hand dismissively at the notion. " _Dios mío_ , don't remind me. I'm hoping that he runs out of things to say within the first hour so I don't have to listen to him the whole trip to Westhaven." Sol laughed as her mother walked towards the back door of the shop, immediately behind her. Her mother gave one last smile and waved, twisted the rickety knob of the door, and disappeared past it, finalising her departure with her steps leading away from the shop.

A sigh escaped Sol, relieved that the hardest part passed. She loved her mother, that was an absolute fact, but sometimes it felt nice to take a break. She walked back to the shelf where she resumed counting brandy bottles, except... _Wait._

_Damn. I lost count._

✳ ❖ ✳

Harmstead sat pretty far out of the city after all, if you can even call Westhaven a real city. It had cobblestone streets and a large market, enough to beckon her own parents to go and restock the store supply for the shop, but outside of that, she never understood the allure of tall multi-story buildings and late-night debauchery. Maybe if she lived in a city as famous as Saint Denis, always described in the newspapers as bustling with excitement and booming businesses, she'd be more attuned to the idea. But Westhaven just _wants_ to be that; it wants to be important and plays at being more than a hollow city-town with just as empty people. And besides, it's not like her parents would let her go into the "city" with them, even if she wanted. Someone had to look after the shop, right? 

Regardless of her feelings about Westhaven, the rest of Sol's Sunday went as uneventful and boring as any sixteen-year-old could hope for. Inventory took about another half hour or so after her parents took off, and after that, she occupied her time by either reading the newspaper or staring into space. A few customers passed through the shop here and there, but they were mostly people stopping by to grab either curatives or provisions for the rest of the ride into "real" civilisation. As the day crept closer toward dusk and the sun sank behind houses, customers ignored the hotel across the road from the shop and loaded back into their wagons or horses to head westwards. She didn't mind though -- the fewer people in town only meant the fewer people to deal with and less trouble to avoid.

Darkness settled into the shop, making it hard to see in front of her without the help of lamps hanging on the side of the walls. Sol stared out with heavy eyelids, trying hard not to slip back into a daydream about one day leaving this boring town, but decided it was best to sleep instead. She reached for her pocket watch inside her apron pocket, a rusted, silver one her father bought for her as a gift a few years back. The time never read right, but it was close enough: somewhere between 7 and 8 pm. No one had walked into the shop for the last hour or so, and it was Sunday, like her mother mentioned. She figured no one would care too much if she closed earlier than usual.

She walked to the front door and flipped the "OPEN" sign. Next, she went to the lamps hanging off the walls near the front of the shop and snuffed out the lights, dimming the shop so as to detract any late-night wanderers from trying to come in. Sundays are usually reserved for dusting and sweeping, but she had drifted off into her daydreams so often that it was too dark to do either. 

_If I do it tomorrow evening, Mamá and Papá won't even notice_ , Sol thought, trying to ignore the broom on the wall to focus on closing out. The register shot open and she took the dollars out, separating the tens, five, and ones from one another. The coins sat last in the till because she hated to count each one. Her bangs, frizzy and in the way, dangled across her eyes as she shuffled the bills and counted them. She would remember to trim them after she bathed - her hair isn't meant for this humidity and heat. Not caring about the dollar amount after all, she stashed the cash and coins into the money bag, then made her way to the back of the shop to lock the door. She sighed, recognising that it was the very same one her mother twisted to leave the shop earlier that day. Sol knew she hated Westhaven and everything it stood for, but sometimes, for brief moments, she wished she could be included in the action.

In any case, she locked the door and turned the corner to walk upstairs to their living space. _Oh yeah,_ she thought to herself. _Living somewhere that isn't connected to the place I work part-time would be nice too._ Sol made a mental note to add it to her never-ending list of things she wants in her measly life, and she carefully navigated up the creaky, uneven stairs to her home, hands fumbling for the wall to the right of her for help.

Then, a loud crash and sharp clatter of shattering glass shocked Sol, who collapsed onto the staircase. A shriek caught in her throat. Her heart raced too fast to match her breathing. _What the hell was that?!_ She tried to keep quiet as she struggled to focus on the noise in the shop not quite yet below her. It sounded like a mass of groans and curses dragging closer to the walkway Sol was mere seconds ago. She kept as low to the staircase as she could and hoped that she blended in with the wood.

The figure made itself clear in the same glow where her own mother stood earlier that afternoon - a burly man with brown hair, doubling over what looked like a hurt leg, one arm on it, the other one reaching out to support himself. Sol managed to catch weary, blue eyes of the man, whose face was shrouded otherwise by a tattered bandana. And as soon as she caught herself gazing at him from the shadows, he stared back, a revolver pointing directly at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
> ✳ mija: pronounced "MEE-hah," a colloquialism for "mi hija" which means "my daughter"  
> ✳ pero: "but"  
> ✳ Dios mío: "My God"


	2. Seven of Swords (Upright)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all who left kudos and, at the very least, gave this fanfiction a try! I know this probably looks unprofessional to be saying thanks again on the second chapter, but considering this is my first fanfiction in many years, it makes me happy to see regardless!
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy! This chapter is a bit longer than the first one, since we're getting the ball rolling now. Thanks again!
> 
> ✳SOL, HARMSTEAD, OFFICER JONES, DOVEPORT, CATHCART & CO., & WESTHAVEN ARE FICTIONAL. EVERYTHING RED DEAD REDEMPTION-RELATED BELONGS TO ROCKSTAR✳

deception - trickery - strategy

✳ ❖ ✳

The man aimed the gun directly at her, gripped tight in a bloody hand. Sol’s breath caught in her throat and she could feel tears begin to well up as she stared at the man. Despite the heat, her hands clammed up and shook as she tried to compose herself. There was nothing she could do without possibly ending her life. She kept her gaze on him, afraid that looking away would anger him.

“Please, sir, w-wait,” she begged, her voice quivering as she tried not to cry. Her body was cemented to the stairs, unable to move even if she desperately wanted; her legs felt like twigs that would break the moment she put any weight on them. She thought of her mother, her father, the shop. One by one, their images began to fade out of her head, making her panic even more.

The man seemed unbothered and trudged toward her. Glass shards cracked underneath his boots. She didn’t dare take her eyes off of him, taking in every detail that she could see of him in the dim light: his thick, dark eyebrows above hooded eyes; his disheveled, thick hair; his collarbone peeking out of his unbuttoned, dirty dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, all tucked underneath a vest. From where she sat, she could see that he was taller than her father, even as he slightly slouched, more than likely taking weight off of his hurt leg. She could see blood from his wound stain through his torn jeans.

“S-sir, what do you want? Do you w-want m-money?” Sol whimpered. She held back a sob and trembled. The man walked closer. Blinking her eyes made the brimmed tears roll down her cheeks. “I’ll give you all of it, just p-plea--”

“You never saw me,” the man spoke at last. His voice had a deep guttural growl to it, rasping slightly with every word. “If they ask you ‘bout a man fittin’ my description, you don’t know nothin’ ‘bout it. Do you understand?” His thick accent was one she couldn’t quite place: slightly southern, but not. It paired almost too perfectly with his rough voice. He holstered his gun, swaying a bit as did so.

She didn’t dare ask who he meant by “they,” but her question was answered anyway by imminent sounds of horses galloping just outside the store’s back entrance and now newly broken window. The man didn’t turn to follow the sound. Light from the street posts behind him painted him in backlight, making his frame all the more mountainous. 

“Now, I want you t’ come outta there,” he said. His voice softened and dragged a little slower than before. “I don’t intend t’ hurt you, ma’am. I know it looks that way right now, but I can assure you that I’m just tryin’ to escape some bad men.” 

_Bad men?!_ From where she sat, a loaded gun pointed at her head just moments earlier, everything about _him_ screamed bad! 

“I promise you will never see or hear of me again if you help me. Do you understand?” 

Sol couldn’t hold back her sobs anymore and they croaked out of her like coughs. She stood up and walked down the few stairs it took to reach him, her nose stopped up from crying. She kept her gaze lowered, waiting until her eyes met the golden glow of light illuminating the floorboards.

“Wait,” he said suddenly. She didn’t look up at him, but she saw his shadow take a step backwards. “Miss, how old are you?”

She cleared her throat of the mucous running down her throat and wiped her nose with her shirt’s long sleeve. “I-I’m sixteen, sir,” she said in a whisper. Her hands clamped together, the spaces between her fingers hurting the tighter she gripped. She kept her gaze on the ground; she was afraid of what her age meant to him. 

He sighed deeply and immediately winced as his focus went to his leg before dropping to his good knee, right in her line of sight. Sol couldn’t help but look at him when he pulled down his bandana. Bruises revealed themselves on one side of a clean-shaven face as well as not so recent gashes on his bottom lip and on his chin, which seemed to have begun scabbing over. 

“Goddamn it,” he said in a huff, pulling frays of fabric on his jeans away to better inspect the wound. “I didn’t expect there to be a child here. I saw a dark store window and I just jumped in.” The way he called her a “child” picked at her, as if diminishing her age erased the fact that he pointed a loaded gun at her. She didn’t feel like a “child” here, and she didn’t feel like one when she worked with her mother cleaning hotels and getting harassed daily by the local drunkards. He picked at the glass in his leg but gave up fairly quickly when he realized that it hurt. “Anyway, I meant what I said: I’ll be outta yer hair if you let me hide for a bit until those lawmen leave.”

The sound outside was close now. Sol could hear one man call to another to check alleyways for footprints. The thudding heartbeat in her ears ached at the thought of the law being involved. She heard her mother’s voice in her head: _“It’s better to not cause trouble if we can avoid it, yeah?”_ This would be a prime example of not doing just that. But did she have a choice? If she didn’t help this man, she may make him angry and get herself hurt. If she does help him, the law gets involved and she could get into even more trouble. And regardless of what she decided or what was inherently right, her parents wouldn’t be thrilled to see a window shattered in the shop and damaged goods, so what _could_ she do?

Without thinking, she grabbed his arm and urged him to get up. Just as she thought might happen, the voices now came from around the front. The mysterious man looked to find exactly where they were. She led him to a closet immediately in front of the inventory shelves and next to the door from which her mother walked out earlier that day. In the same pocket where the leather money bag sat, she pulled out a key ring and used one of the keys to unlock it.

“If I help you, you’ll leave me alone, right?” she asked, guiding him inside the tight space with a gesture. When he walked in, she untied the apron behind her back. The moneybag fell out of the pocket and she kicked it under a shelf in the closet. _Hopefully he didn’t see what that was._ The man sat down with all his weight on a bag of rice in the corner of the room. She began balling the apron up as much as she could with the intention to push it hard against the wound, making the man flinch and grab her hands. His hands felt calloused against her skin, but warmer than her own, nonetheless.

“Whoa, wait a second, miss. What the hell do y’think yer doin’?” he asked, his gravelly voice grating against his throat; his eyes shot daggers. Her heart raced, this time due to the tension more than genuine fear of him.

“I’m gonna try and stop your bleeding,” she said. She recalled her father teaching her about how to treat big wounds, should one ever occur in the shop or wherever she is. She admittedly had never used this knowledge up until now, so she felt embarrassed at the thought that she was possibly doing it all wrong.The man lifted her hands off his wounds, trying to be gentle and calm about it, despite how much pain he seemed to be in.

“Not like that, are you crazy?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “There’s glass in my damn leg. Give me that.” He reached up and grabbed the fabric from her hands.

Sol stood up from where she was, letting the man deal with his own pain. He wrapped the fabric around his thigh and pulled it taut. “So, will you? Leave me alone, I mean?” she asked.

“Y-yes,” he said quickly through his grimace. She could see that he struggled trying to keep it tight while at the same time tying it into a knot. “If you can manage to get ‘em off my tail, you will never see me again.”

“Deal,” she said without hesitation and stood up and away from him after handing him the key to the closet. She closed the door on the man and just as it clicked shut, she heard the doorknob lock from the other side. The shop was finally quiet outside of Sol’s now apparent short breaths. The silence didn’t last long, however. Just as she started to tiptoe around the glass on the floor, she heard pounding on the front door of the shop. Bottles sitting on the shelves right next to the door rattled from the vibration.

She walked to the front of the shop and tried to come up with last minute scenarios that she could possibly tell the men out on the front steps. Failing that, she tried to count how many figures were out there, how many people to whom she would have to lie. It was hard to make out the exact number, but she saw at least two holding lanterns. She unlocked the front door and three figures stepped through the threshold, revealing one extra that she missed.

“Sorry to bother, ma’am,” the man in front said, a bit louder than he needed to. He stood tall too, just like the mysterious man, but his eyes were dark and wideset. He sported a thick handlebar moustache that curled up towards his ears. The men behind him looked very similar to him in dress, but only he wore a campaign hat with a large brim. He must be a deputy. He held his lantern up to Sol's face and revealed his badge which glimmered in the light. He seemed to hold back a sneer once he got a good look at her. “Excuse me, _se_ _ñ_ _orita,_ ” he said, his tone clearly changing.

The two other men filed into the shop and looked around. One of them immediately found the broken glass on the floor and signaled his colleague to come check it out. She took a breath, calming herself, and recalled the things her mother and father told her to say in case something like this ever happened to her. It couldn’t get much worse at this point, right?

The deputy stayed in front of her, looking her up and down. It took a lot of willpower to not roll her eyes at him. “This your shop? Clearly not, right?”

“Correct, sir. It’s not,” she replied. She held her hands fast against her, gripping them against her shirt. Ideally, it looked like she was nervous to speak with him more than it looked like she was hiding something. _Did any of his blood get on my hands?_ “This is my father’s. He and my mother left for Westhaven and will be back in a few days.”

“And your father is?” he asked, but he looked past her at the man who was now looking in the corridor that led up to her home.

“Joaquín, sir. My mother is Ire--”

“‘Walkin’?’ What kind of name is ‘Walkin’?” he cut her off abruptly, and the other officer who was inspecting the register chortled at his remark.

“Joa- _quín_ ,” Sol repeated, enunciating each syllable as if he were a child. “I can show you his papers if you need to see them.”

He turned to her and stared hard. He straightened his back and stepped closer into Sol’s personal space. Her mouth all at once felt dry.

“Are you mocking me?”

“No, sir,” she responded, not as brave as she thought she was, and she looked down at her hands still holding onto her shirt. She felt tears forming in the corners of her eyes again. _What a hellish night._ “I’m sorry for offending you.”

His face softened, content at her submission. She hated how easy it was to walk all over her, but she didn’t have a choice. Trying to avoid trouble and all of that. “That’s better. I’m sure your father taught you all about manners, yes?”

“Yessir.”

“Very good. I don’t want to hear anything like that out of your mouth again. Is that clear?”

The man hiding in the closet didn’t feel all that terrifying to her anymore. “Yessir.”

“Good. So, what happened here tonight? Did someone break into this shop?”

Sol heard footsteps thud across the creaky ceiling above her. They were really going to check every corner of this shop. 

“Yes, but I didn’t get a great look at him. I was almost inside my home when I heard the noise, sir,” Sol responded. She hoped these lawmen wouldn’t ask too many questions but judging by the moustached man’s badge, they weren’t from anywhere around here. She tried to read the city name on his badge but couldn’t quite make out the lettering.

“Riiiight. From what you could see, did he seem tall? Dark hair, black bandana around his mouth? Goes by the name of Arthur?”

 _So, his name is Arthur,_ Sol thought. Even though tonight would be the last time she’d ever see him, she felt somewhat relieved to put a name to a memory. Knowing it allowed her to calm down, just a little bit.

“He never told me his name, sir,” she said. She wished she could laugh - why would a criminal suddenly yell out his name as he ran from the law? There was a reason they weren’t in official police uniform. “He jumped in, saw me up the stairs, and ran out the back door.” _Please don’t test out that door,_ she thought. She realised that the door remained locked and she banked on the idiocy of these men to not call her bluff.

“Did you see what direction he went in?” The deputy waited for Sol to point in a direction. She felt like she was so close to being done with this hell.

“Well, from where I was, I’m not completely certain,” she started. “But it sounded like he ran out the back, rounded the front, and went…” she pointed in the opposite direction of where they originally came from, outside the front of the shop. “…that way.”

The deputy smirked as if he solved the world’s hardest riddle. He shouted to no one in particular, “Alright men! We got what we needed. We’ll head back to Doveport from here and let the bounty hunters do all the work.” Sol perked up at the mention of that town. If she recalled correctly, Doveport was small, not much bigger than Harmstead, and about ten miles or so away. Whatever Arthur did must have been inexcusable if they chased him into another podunk town. At any rate, the deputy turned to the officer who was still behind the counter. “Jones! Stay here and take down any other information this miss may give you and then return to Doveport with anything you know. Come on, let’s not dawdle!” He turned without acknowledging Sol while the man who was upstairs came down and walked out with his partner. When all but Officer Jones left the shop, Sol sighed with relief. She hadn’t noticed before, but she had been holding her breath tightly ever since they arrived.

“Shit,” Jones growled and stepped toward Sol. He was much shorter than the captain and sounded as well as looked younger, too; his voice almost squeaked as he muttered to himself, and in the faint light of his lantern, his face had sprinkles of facial hair trying to grow. “Why does he always choose _me?_ ”

Jones leaned on the counter, reached into his worn leather satchel, and pulled out a small notebook that appeared hastily bound together with twine. Sol didn’t feel as intimidated around him as she did with the deputy. “Where exactly is Doveport? Is that on the way to Westhaven?”

His free hand scrambled inside his satchel again until he was able to find a carbon pencil. “I guess, kind of,” he said, clearly comfortable with Sol as well. “It’s not more than an hour from here on horseback. If the horse is fast enough, of course.”

“So y’all rode all the way from Doveport, horses probably sprinting--”

“My legs are still shaking, miss, yes,” he interrupted, clearly exasperated by remembering it. 

“Understandably so. I’m surprised y’all didn’t just turn around,” she replied, smoothing her skirt of any dirt she may have accumulated in the last hour or so. _Almost over._

Jones scrawled something in his notebook and underlined it. “Regrettably, it comes with the job description. Alright, I’m just going to ask some quick questions about tonight and then we can both move on with our lives. I don’t want to be here as much as you don’t want me here.” Sol didn’t know if it was okay to feel relief at an officer voicing her same sentiments. Her mother and father always warned her of lawmen acting dishonest or misleading to get information out of unsuspecting individuals, but this man seemed almost okay. She decided to keep her guard up, regardless. Despite the fact that Jones seemed he didn’t care as much as he should, the fact still stood that a man who escaped police arrest was hiding in her shop at that very moment.

“Sounds fine,” she said.

“Full name, date of birth?”

“Marisol Avilés Rivera, July 1, 1871.”

Jones raised a single eyebrow at her. “Your father’s last name match yours?”

“Well, his last name is Avilés and my mother’s is Rivera, but yes, as far as I’m concerned.”

“And he’s the owner of Cathcart & Co. General Store?”

Sol inhaled sharply. Of course, that would look immediately bad to anyone else, especially if they don’t live in Harmstead. “Yes. My father worked for Mr. Cathcart for many years,” she started. “He decided to retire and knew my father wanted it, so he handed over the papers and that’s that.” Memories of hard winters and scarce amounts of food ran through Sol’s mind. There were many years of working any available job people were willing to give them, and Sol had just turned fourteen a month or so prior to when her father finally could call the shop his.

Jones continued to look at her quizzically and she hoped he wouldn’t press any further than that. After a few moments of pondering between the both of them, he shrugged and wrote some more, and looked around the room. “Was he planning on changing the name?”

She felt her body start to relax a little more and took the opportunity to lean back on the counter next to Jones to give her feet a break. “Have you ever spent time in Harmstead, Mr. Jones?”

He shook his head. “No, not really, miss. Don’t really have a reason to. Maybe if I had a ranch, I’d be more interested.”

She chucked a bit. “Yes, in any case,” she moved her bangs off her forehead just a little bit, as they were starting to bother her eyelashes. “People here don’t take kindly to the idea of a brown man owning his own store. We’re not in Guarma anymore. Well,” she stopped herself, in hopes that memories of the island returned to her, but nothing came to mind. “I guess I mean the Guarma _before_ Fussar took over. Anyway, my father doesn’t think it’s a good idea to change the sign. It’s easier for people to think that Cathcart is just on an extended vacation.”

Jones didn’t seem to care whether her story rang true or not; he continued to write in his notebook without looking at her once. He then snapped the notebook shut and put it back into his pants pocket. “I think that’s all the information I need, Miss Avilés. Thank you, I appreciate your patience. You didn’t see much so there’s nothing else we can do here, other than keep an eye out and start setting up bounty posters.” He took a small bow and tipped his head as if he forgot he wasn’t wearing a hat and then proceeded to walk toward the door. Before he stepped completely out, he turned to face Sol, who also got off the counter and followed him to see him out. “By the way, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“What is it?”

“You may want to take care to wash the blood off your hands and shirt. Looks like you cut yourself on the glass pretty bad,” he said with what looked like an attempt at a wink, but in reality was just a head nod at her while he blinked hard. That would have been a good moment to feign shyness if that was the case, but Sol only felt a flush of guilt. Did he actually find her out?

There was no real way for her to tell, because within seconds, Jones unhitched his horse from the post in front of the shop and rode off into the darkness. She stood beside herself, not sure what to make of anything. Her head spun with all the different things she had to remember to do before her parents’ inevitable return from Westhaven: Take a bath, cut her hair, clean the shop, sweep the glass off the floor…

And, of course, get the mysterious man out of the storage closet and act as if nothing ever happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
> ✳ señorita: (seh-nyaw-REE-tah) the equivalent of "miss," when you know the person is younger than you & unmarried. Diminutive of "señora," (se-NYAW-rah) which is the equivalent to "Mrs," which alludes to the woman being older than you. Señorita is also more informal than señora.


	3. Five of Wands (Reversed)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience as this chapter was getting written & edited. Between me writing & my partner proofreading before I publish here, we've both been really busy in our respective lives so this took longer to put out than I anticipated. I did say earlier that I would be surprised if I posted faster than every three or four weeks, so I guess I hit the nail on the head this time!
> 
> & thanks as always for sticking around, for the kudos & comments. They really mean a lot!
> 
> ✳SOL, HARMSTEAD, CATHCART & CO., & DOVEPORT ARE FICTIONAL. EVERYTHING RED DEAD REDEMPTION-RELATED BELONGS TO ROCKSTAR✳

avoiding conflict – respecting differences- tension released

✳ ❖ ✳

Somehow, everything outside the shop seemed to be unphased by lawmen arriving from another town; horses trotted by with thudding hooves and Sol could hear a few distant voices talking to one another as if nothing happened. Or, rather, they weren’t impacted, so they couldn’t be bothered. She sighed, not caring either way, and walked to the storage closet once she deemed it safe to reveal its tucked away secret. After carefully avoiding the glass on the ground, she reached for the door and knocked. “It’s me, sir. They’re gone.”

A soft groan sounded from the closet, followed by the sound of creaking wood and a heavy step. Then, a quick twist of the knob from the other side. The door opened slowly and before Sol stepped inside, the man named Arthur fell back onto the bag of rice and exhaled sharply. She could only imagine that his leg still hurt, despite the makeshift tourniquet he fashioned on himself.

“Y’know, you don’t hafta call me ‘sir’ like I’m one of those men,” he said. Sol leaned to the left in hopes that she would find the shelf holding the stacks of matches and thankfully her memory served her right. She grabbed a box and lit the lantern in one of the corners of the room. He continued, “They already told you my name.”

“That would be impolite of me, considering you never formally introduced yourself to me to begin with.” Sol didn’t have the courage to tell him that she still felt on edge from the whole debacle, so she couldn’t help but be nervous. “Besides, how is it fair that I know yours, but you don’t know mine?”

The lantern glowed bright enough in that compact room that she saw him smirk before letting out a hefty chuckle. “Who says I don’t know your name, Marisol Aviles Rivera, born on July—”

“Alright, alright,” she interrupted him, now officially annoyed by his behavior. The way he said her name, with hard r’s and slurred vowels, made her skin crawl in a way akin to hearing nails on a chalkboard. He may have been attractive for a criminal, but that didn’t grant him grounds to be irritating. “I get it, you heard everything. I was just trying to be courteous, given that you’re older than me.”

He chuckled again, this time attempting to lift himself off the rice bag and onto his good leg. “I ain’t one for formalities anyway, Miss Marisol. And anyway, I hate it break it to ya, but I’m not _that_ old.” Sol stepped forward to help him and instead met a hand swatting her away. She shrugged and watched him struggle to walk forward, then settle on leaning against the shelf to his right.

“Never said you were _very_ old. Just that you were older. Clearly. I mean, you called me a child.”

“Yeah, but that was before you lied to lawmen for a man ‘ _clearly_ ’ older than you. So now what? You wanna run away and be a criminal with me?”

“Lying does not mean I want the law chasing after me such that I have to break into people’s homes, Mr. Arthur,” she retorted. Still, Sol flushed at the idea of joining him on an illicit escapade like tonight, but combatted it by holding out her hand to him. “Are we getting out of this closet or not? Don’t push my hand away either,” she said quickly, right as he was beginning to shake his head. “You don’t have to play at being tough. I already know you can’t walk real well on that leg of yours. How is it now, by the way? Did the bleeding slow down at least?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and grumbled as he grabbed Sol’s wrist to balance himself. Sol thought that she would be disappointed if he were any older than twenty with the way he was acting. But she also figured that with a build like his, it should have been impossible for a late teenager to be as tall and stocky as him.

“Yeah, thanks to your apron and not much else,” he said with a scoff. “It stopped, but I still gotta get the glass outta my leg and clean it properly. I guess I’ll do that once I get back.” Sol held herself back from asking what “back” meant, knowing full well that he wouldn’t tell her in his mood. “If you can manage to get me out this here door, that would be swell.” Sol, ignoring him, took the lantern off the shelf with her free hand, turned out of the closet and to the stairs. He pulled back before she stepped on the first step. “I said, out the do—”

“Oh, I heard you, Mr. Arthur. I just didn’t care for it.” She got on the stair and pulled on his arm to follow, but he didn’t budge. There was no point in trying to pressure a mountain into moving. She turned to face him and stood right at eye level with him. The light from the lantern hanging in her hand revealed spots of moles in different parts of his face, and his eyes gleamed brighter with the flame’s glow reflecting off of them.

“Please, Miss Marisol,” he sighed. “Just Arthur. None of that ‘mister’ shit.”

“And you can call me Sol. See, was that so hard?” she tried yanking him again, but to no avail. If he was going to play at being a smart aleck, she very well may join in, too.

“Alright, _Sol_ ,” he growled, with the same rumble in his throat as when he first spoke to her that night. “Why are you leadin’ me up the stairs? I thought you want me gone.”

“I do, trust me. But you’re not gonna make it very far with a bum leg, are you?” He didn’t respond, so she tugged him one more time and he hesitantly followed, more than likely realising that she was right. “You’re just gonna bring me more trouble if people see you limping out of here.”

“Then I’ll just wait ‘til it’s dead quiet t’ leave. There’s no reason for you to involve yourself by housin’ me when all I’d be doin’ is bein’ even more of an inconvenience.”

Sol groaned loud enough for Arthur to hear and hoisted his arm over her shoulder to make him move faster. “ _Fastidioso_ , I thought you weren’t one for formalities? Didn’t really take you as the type to suddenly care about how I spend my time.” They were almost at the top of the stairs now with Arthur no longer resisting. “With all due respect, jumping through my shop window and pointing a gun at me made yourself involved and, therefore, already caused me a major inconvenience.” She waited for an answer, an acknowledgment maybe, but she was met with silence as they continued the slog to the top.

At the front door of her home, she reached inside her sock to pull out a single key. Sol found it easier to keep the house key on her rather than on the keyring, considering that she hated having to guess in the dark which key unlocked what door. This wouldn’t have been an issue tonight since she brought the lantern up with her this time, but it also went without saying that she shouldn’t have had to bring the lantern up if everything happened as it should have. The door unlocked easily and she led him into the small living space.

The homes in Harmstead varied from small cabins to not-as-small houses, and the Avilés household resembled more of a large closet compared to all of them. No one else could boast that their home was quite literally a few steps away from their work, after all. Walking through the door put Sol and Arthur in the dining room, which connected to a small kitchen in the corner. When Sol’s father inherited the shop from Mr. Cathcart, he renovated the other side of the space to give her a private bedroom, but that in turn meant the bathroom became even more cramped than what it was. She was used to living in a tight space like this, even before living in Harmstead, but having a guest in her home experience it too, unwelcome or not, made her a little embarrassed all the same.

Together, they walked to the dining table, where Sol helped Arthur sit in one of its chairs. She left the lantern with him while she went to light the gas lamps hanging around by using a box of matches left near the sink. When the room was adequately lit, she turned back to him as he began to untie the fabric around his leg. He held it up to her, blood-stained and dirtied from the events of that night.

“Sorry about that,” he said softly, his eyes not meeting hers. She grabbed the apron and tossed it into a basket in the corner of the room. He took his satchel off his side and placed it on top of the dining room table, but kept it close enough to grab. Sol didn’t take Arthur to be a bag-wearing sort of man – it looked almost too nice, despite his ragged attire. Given his reputation for running from the law and pointing guns at people, she wouldn’t be surprised if he stole it at one point in his life.

“It’s okay. I have to do laundry tomorrow anyway,” she replied. Sol knelt next to him with the lantern illuminating his thigh and knee. She could see the glass glinting in his leg a lot better now. “Don’t move – I think I have a pair of tweezers in the washroom.” She took the lantern into the bathroom just a few steps away, and opened up the chest near the bathtub where she thought they were.

“Why are you doin’ this?” he asked. “I don’t need to be here. You coulda just left me downstairs.”

“And let that leg worsen your chances of leaving the shop?” she retorted from the bathroom, still sifting through unused towels and bars of soap. Again, Arthur said nothing back, seemingly frustrated with Sol having a counterargument to anything that came out of his mouth. A small victory would be had in her head if this were true. She felt a cool sensation of metal on her fingertips and pulled a small box out of the basket. “And to be frank, you’re not as scary as those officers earlier. I would have been dead by now if you were actually a threat.”

“Hey, hey now!” he exclaimed. Sol smirked at Arthur, who was clearly bothered by her assertion. “I’m still a bad guy here, no mistake about it. I just choose my victims on a day-by-day basis.”

Sol opened the box to find the tweezers inside. She grabbed a small towel and some spare bandages out of the chest as well. “Yeah, yeah, if you say so.” She wet the towel slightly at the sink, and when she got back to Arthur, she knelt at his feet and started picking out the glass. Arthur wasn’t too thrilled, apparent from the occasional muttered curse or wince, but he otherwise kept quiet and stared at his knee, glancing at her occasionally as she worked. She kept her breath slow and steady, but all that did was make her heart thud hard in her chest. She was all too aware of Arthur’s gaze on her.

“So, uhh, Arthur? You from Doveport?” she asked. Better to ask him anything to get his attention off her rather than continue in awkward silence.

“Why do you wanna know? You gonna come visit me?” He chuckled, which caused his knee to jolt a little bit, and by accident Sol dug her tweezers into his wound. Arthur recoiled with a howl.

She sighed and adjusted his leg back to where it was; he was being an ass, so he got what he deserved. It was a simple case of playing with fire and getting burnt all the while. “So, there’s no particular reason you’re about to have a bounty hunter after you from Doveport and not anywhere else?”

“Shit, sorry. Uhh, not really, I guess? I mean, I kinda live around there now? But I ain’t from there.”

“Uh-huhh…” This was proving to be interesting for Sol. “So where _are_ you from?”

“Everywhere. Nowhere? I dunno, why does it matter?”

Sol didn’t look up. She adjusted herself around his leg to see if there was any glass left higher up on his thigh. “It doesn’t, I guess. I was just trying to make small talk.”

“I ain’t one for small talk, Miss Sol.”

No one made a sound for a while. She continued to look for glass and dab his wound with the wet towel in silence. Arthur’s gaze was no longer on her as he looked around the room. This was fine with Sol.

A few minutes passed and the wound was as clean as it was going to be. Sol took her time to wrap the wound carefully with the bandages she found and at last stood up, only to sit down in the chair next to him. She looked at his bronzed face; the cuts on his face had scabbed over at this point, but she figured she could attempt to look at them while she was there, if he would allow her. She leaned forward. “May I look at those cuts?”

He looked quizzically at her, then shrugged and tilted his face toward her. She scooted forward in the chair and looked at him, careful to avoid his eyes. He stared right past her. The cut on his lip wasn’t too bad now that time has passed, but the gash on his chin looked deep and wasn’t scabbing over properly. Despite it all, if she ignored the casualties on his face, she had to admit that Arthur was, in fact, very handsome, much more than she originally thought.

“Did the glass get you on your chin, too?” she asked, inspecting the cut.

“Oh, that was from Doveport. I, uh, got in a bit of a scuffle on the way out.” Sol raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that. It was just a misunderstanding.”

“Enough of a misunderstanding to land you bruises on the other side of your face. Do I dare ask what happened?” she asked as she pressed the towel onto his cheek, which earned her a glare as he pulled himself free.

“Watch yourself, Miss Sol. I think that’s enough for tonight.” He pushed against the edge of the dining room table to lift himself up. Sol didn’t have to do anything before gravity took hold of him and sat him back into the chair.

“If you don’t let me mend your chin, it’s gonna scar pretty bad, you know,” she said. She leaned in again, but he turned his head away.

“It’ll go nicely with all my other scars then. I’ve been in a brawl before, this surely won’t be the last.” Sol sighed and relented. She stood up from her seat and tossed the damp towel into the basket in the corner of the room. When she looked at Arthur, he smirked. _I guess he won this time._

“Well, that’s all I can do at this point, I suppose. Sorry I don’t have proper disinfectant for your leg – we’re not a doctor’s office and we don’t usually get cut this badly on a normal day.” Sol stood up to put the tweezers back where it came from. “I don’t recommend you leave until daybreak though. It’ll look suspicious if you leave now with a wound like that.”

“Sure,” he responded, the word so drawn out to the point that it sounded like “shore” instead. “I’ll blend in with the mornin’ crowd.” Arthur wouldn’t look at her, instead still fixated on the lantern’s flame. Sol disappeared into her parents’ room, only to bring out fresh clothes and a bedroll, and his eyes drew upon her when she stepped out. He sighed and shook his head at what he saw. “Miss Sol, please. I don’t need any more of your hospitality, I surely don’t deserve it.”

“You’re right. You don’t,” she said, placing the clothes on the dining room table. “But it doesn’t make sense for you to leave here with tattered clothing, especially considering all the blood that has dried on them by now.” She handed him the bedroll, noticing that he didn’t seem all that impressed. “And anyway, these are all my father’s old clothes – he hasn’t worn these saddle jeans in years and this old _guayabera_ has stains and a hole in the front pocket. I would have thrown all this out anyway, so consider it a charitable donation.”

Arthur chuckled and grabbed the bedroll. “Fair enough. I’ll be out of here before you even wake up.” He lowered himself off the chair and onto the floor, where he laid the bedroll close enough to move his body onto it. Sol walked away from him to her bedroom and, even though she had an urge to tell him “good night,” she held back and closed the door behind her.

She’d worry about the glass downstairs in the morning. She’d bathe, cut her bangs, clean up shop, and hope that nothing from this night ever reared its ugly head again. Exhaustion took over her as soon as she removed the shoes from her feet, and within seconds, her eyelids weighed heavy as she fell asleep.

✳ ❖ ✳

Sol slept well past the time the shop was supposed to open – she could tell from the sunlight bearing down on her through the soft, cotton curtains, as well as the dissonance of galloping hooves and loud chatter coming from outside. Her parents weren’t home, so it’s not like they would ever find out she didn’t wake up on time. She took her time getting out of bed, her shoulders aching from being so tense the night before.

 _Oh yeah… The night before._ Memories of last night flooded her mind, everything still vivid as if she never fell asleep. Arthur had said he would be gone before she got up, but she still felt a nervousness inside her chest, a forbearing hope that maybe he actually stayed just long enough to say goodbye. She couldn’t stop the fluttering in her stomach, both scary and exciting, as she checked her face in her small vanity in the corner before exiting the room.

She knew logically that he wouldn’t be there, but she was disappointed nonetheless when she saw the empty dining room. The bedroll was wrapped back up and placed on the table, but the clothes were gone, which relieved Sol of her despondency if only a little. When her eyes landed on a leather moneybag laying against the bedroll, panic grabbed her throat. _Oh shit_ _,_ she thought. _Of course, he saw the moneybag downstairs. Did he scam me after all, knowing that he would never see me again?_

She practically jumped to the table, hastily opening the bag to see what little remained in the bag. To her surprise, there was still cash left. She poured out the coins onto the table and counted each bill just to make sure. She ultimately counted an extra fifty dollars that weren’t there before. Did he actually give her money? She hadn’t expected a lot of things to come from last night and compensation was very low on her list. As she filed the money back into the bag, she caught a small note stuck on to it. Sol pulled the scrap out, remarking to herself that the paper looked ripped out of a notebook. Could Arthur… _write?_ She didn’t give herself a chance to ruminate further. She opened up the note and was taken aback to see hastily written yet elegant cursive across the page.

_Miss Marisol,_

_I left some money in the bag you left downstairs_. _Not sure if you meant to leave it down there to begin with. I brought it upstairs with me but forgot in the midst of… well, everything. I hope that fifty dollars is enough to repair the window I broke and recompense you for the time and effort you lost taking care of me. Thank you kindly for your hospitality and let us hope that we never cross paths again, for your sake more than mine._

_Sincerely, Arthur M._

This scenario was exactly what Sol wanted last night, but she still felt slighted. _Miss_ _Marisol_? Not even her nickname? How was _that_ fair? As she looked out the dining room’s window, past the hotel’s roof across the way, past the trees behind it, beyond where she could have ever ridden or seen, Sol wondered why everything had ended before it had a chance to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
> ✳ fastidioso: "annoying"  
> ✳ guayabera: a type of summer shirt typically worn in most Latin American countries, especially Cuba. It’s very light and usually made out of linen or cotton.


	4. Knight of Cups (Reversed)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! The character tags in the description are finally growing as more familiar faces make their appearance in here, so I'm glad I can finally add more to make it seem more than just a fanfic about a girl & our favorite cowboy, haha. Again, I know it's been a hot minute since I posted, but I always feel uncomfortable publishing my chapter without another pair of eyes looking it over, so you'll have to forgive us both for the wait!
> 
> ALSO as a quick aside, as I was reading up on some RDR2 research & recalling past details, I realised that the dates in my last chapter were off by a bit. It's not *super* detrimental, but I figure it's worth mentioning here in case y'all remember it being it one thing & are shocked to see it switched here... Sorry about that!
> 
> ✳SOL & HARMSTEAD ARE FICTIONAL. EVERYTHING RED DEAD REDEMPTION-RELATED BELONGS TO ROCKSTAR✳
> 
> ❖ a few weeks later; mid-March, 1887

disappointment – moodiness – tantrums

✳ ❖ ✳

Sol failed to keep focus as she swept the hotel room – all it took was one swift knock of her broom into a nightstand to snap her out of her daze, but she wasn’t quick enough to save the candleholder that had just moments ago sat on top of said nightstand from clattering onto the wooden floor. “Damn it,” she cursed under her breath, and quickly picked it up. This wasn’t the first time she hit something on accident today.

“Mari, are you okay?” her mother called from the other room. It was early enough in the afternoon that the two women didn’t have to worry about disturbing any of the guests staying upstairs; the lunch rush downstairs was still in full swing.

“Yes, mamá,” she said after a moment, trying to compose herself after standing up too quickly. “I hit the nightstand, that’s all.”

Before Sol could finish replying, her mother was already at the doorway with a hand on her hip. “Again?” She stepped into the room and softly closed the door behind her in case anyone tried to listen in. “ _¿_ _Te sientes enferma?_ ” she asked under her breath.

“No no no, _estoy bien_. Sorry,” Sol whispered back. Her mother only spoke in Spanish in public whenever she felt genuinely concerned, especially for Sol’s well-being. Sol felt guilty that her daydreaming was, once again, getting in the way of her work, worrying her mother above all else. She wondered if her mother had been paying attention to her these last few weeks. “I just haven’t been sleeping well lately, so I’m nodding off. _No te preocupes,_ mamá _._ ”

Her mother sighed and nodded, as if she understood exactly what was riddling Sol’s brain. “Alright, _mija_. You let me know when you need a break.” She opened the door back up and stepped into the hallway. Before she walked away, she added, “You know you can help your papá in the shop instead if you want a day off.”

 _So, it’s not really a day off,_ she thought to herself, but instead said aloud, “I know, thank you. I’ll let you know.”

Sol couldn’t deny that she’d been dozing off a lot more than she used to a few weeks back. It wasn’t unlike her to get lost in her novels, so far as even neglecting the world around her, but somehow the terror and excitement of that night left her truly spellbound. She longed for a life that wasn’t in Harmstead. Or, at the very least, for a connection that was outside of her mundane routine.

After Arthur left that morning, Sol had no choice but to get back to work, and later that day beg the hotel owner’s sons to repair the window with the extra money she received. And because people in Harmstead love to talk, she had to spend that same day not only working while repairs were underway, but also appease the local busybodies who happened to be within earshot of everything (which, admittedly, may as well have been the entire town) and ensure them that no, nothing happened that night, and no, it really wasn’t as bad as they made it out to be. Just a misunderstanding.

But Sol didn’t want to believe that. That meant she had to go back to existing behind the counter, staring at the shelves full of produce and groceries lined in front of her as the whirlwind of that night settled into a memory. She swept the glass that littered the floor and the window had been repaired within the day; she even had a chance to clean the shop like she was supposed to on Sunday evenings. All that had remained was a haircut, more money than before Arthur had crashed into the shop, and a newfound yearning for an opportunity. What exactly that “opportunity” intended to be she couldn’t really pinpoint, but she had a taste for something different, and no longer just in the books she read – she couldn’t shake away these fleeting fantasies that endlessly popped up in her mind.

She finished up cleaning the hotel room, stepped out into the hallway, and knocked on an adjacent door where her mother was cleaning. “Mother,” she called. “I’m gonna start on the tables up here.” She’d take that as her break – it’d save her from knocking over any more things. She heard her mother give an okay and Sol ventured down the hall in order to start prepping the tables for the evening. The air out here felt cooler anyway, probably because there weren’t as big of windows to let in the hot afternoon sunlight.

While the hotel was better known for the sparse amount of small guess rooms both upstairs and downstairs, it also functioned as Harmstead’s only combination restaurant and bar. The bar sat downstairs and never had too many people, even on the weekends. The crowd always varied between town drunks or travelers taking the night off with a few drinks. There were tables spread around, here and there, most of them being downstairs where the kitchen was closest, but there was also an upstairs seating area where tables were set up next to a few small windows to enjoy the view of… Sol wasn’t exactly sure. Oak trees? A distant mountain? It all looked the same to her. Maybe it would help if her parents would let her venture out further than a couple of miles outside of town without supervision, but she felt like it wasn’t exactly the time to complain.

A clamoring of voices resounded downstairs when Sol stepped out of the hallway and into the seating area. As she rolled her sleeves up to begin wiping tables down, she listened to the patrons enjoying their late lunch. This was better for her, after all. Being out here made her feel more accountable – everyone could watch her work, and therefore she didn’t have the luxury to daydream, never mind the fact that the hodgepodge of conversations bouncing off the walls up to her made it hard to focus on anything else anyway.

And yet her concentration broke at the sound of the front door. The door’s bell jingled haphazardly, as if the person opening it wasn’t used to the door’s weight. She thought it odd but chalked it up to a traveler passing through town or the wind kicking up outside. Moving from the first table to the second, she resorted to reciting what needed to be done to stave off further distraction. _Tables, floor, dusting. Tables, floor, dusting. Tables…_

Sol didn’t notice that minutes had passed until a booming voice erupted in laughter shook her from her stupor. She had heard loud people before, the kind that fill up the whole room just by speaking, but this felt different. She couldn’t _not_ hear him, a baritone thunder resonating up to her on the second floor. She moved closer to the railing and tried to put a face to the voice. Her ears led her to a table just below her and onto a raven-haired gentleman talking at length to someone directly under her feet.

“What are you talking about, son? This is the perfect town to lay low in!” he laughed, tilting a beer bottle he was holding to his mouth.

 _Funny,_ Sol thought. _He already seemed to be a man who revels in drinking his own words. Laying low? With a voice like his?_ If the other person responded, she didn’t hear it; their voice likely overpowered by all the noise, including the man before them.

“We already took care of everything, don’t worry,” the man said. “Hosea said they don’t even remember your name, let alone what you look like. Besides,” he paused to take another swig of his beer. “No one would think to find us here. A rural country town lord knows how many miles away from a real city?” Sol could hear mumbling come from the man’s son, partner, or whoever; the raven-haired man took this pause as incentive to take a bite of his lunch and nod in response. “I understand your uncertainty, but I can assure you – this is all going accordingly.” The man gestured in front of him, then focused on finishing his food. It seemed like he was urging his guest to eat as well.

Sol decided to use the break from eavesdropping as a chance to get back to work. But she couldn’t help but dwell on the raven-haired man’s voice. It sounded… Urbane, almost. Cultured, but with grit and a hoarseness that made her feel like he was someone to be respected. He knew he was important, and he didn’t need anyone to reassure him. Before she could catch herself, she drifted off into a silly fantasy: everything played out exactly how that night a few weeks back did, but this time, the man who crashed into the shop talked with purpose. Charming and entrancing, he pulled his bandana down with one hand and let out the other for her to take in her own hands. This image of a man beckoned her to run away with him, to forget Harmstead, the shop, to join him on his trek across the country to escape… Escape what?

_And leave my parents?_

When she came to, the rag she used to wipe down the tablets was no longer in her hand. She looked around the table, on the chair, the floor immediately next to it. She thought out loud, “Where the hell—"

“Excuse me? Miss?”

Sol’s stomach flipped when she heard the voice. _Shit. Shit shit shit…_ It came from beneath her and when she peered over the railing, she saw the raven-haired man smiling up at her, holding a dirty towel in the air. The muffled dissonance of voices all around him went silent. Cleaning, all of a sudden, no longer mattered – she raced downstairs and hoped this wouldn’t travel back up to her mother. She should have just stuck to cleaning the rooms. Why did she have to daydream in the middle of lunch rush?

The man wasn’t hard to spot even on the ground floor – his ink-black hair stood out among a crowd of greys and light browns. He turned to face her as she descended the staircase, but she didn’t dare to make eye contact with him. She wasn’t even concerned with the fact that everyone in the room was surely staring at her. What if the towel landed in his food? On his head? All the while she was fantasizing about his voice?!

 _Oh God, just kill me, please,_ she screamed inside her head; her face flushed hot with embarrassment. “Sir, I am so sorry,” she tried to say, but it came out as a whimper. She couldn’t look up at him – her eyes were glued to his arm that draped around the chair upon which he sat, twisting his torso to face her. “I can get you another meal right away, please forgive me.”

“For what, exactly?” he responded; his voice still reverberant even as she stood in front of him. He reached a hand out and patted Sol on her elbow, which caught her by surprise. She realized the towel was folded and laid on his lap. She felt the noise of the hotel return to its original volume. Of course: if there was no conflict, there was no reason to listen in anymore. “Your cleaning rag never touched us, miss. It fell on the floor between me and my associate here.” He handed it to her and smirked. “If it would make you feel better, you can apologise to my friend. He could use the attention from a young, pretty thing like yourself.”

Grumbling exuded from across the table; Sol looked past the raven-haired man and to the man sitting on the other side of the table. With a dish left barely touched but two beer bottles empty, the man was none other than Arthur, a gambler’s hat covering the top half of his face. While Sol found herself initially shocked, a wave of relief washed over her as well. Nerves rushed back into her chest, as if she was reliving the night in the shop all over again.

“Dutch,” Arthur groused. He made eye contact with Sol, then immediately looked away, seemingly to the mashed potatoes on his plate. “This is exactly what I meant ‘bout mindin’ our own business.’ What the hell happened to layin’ low?”

“Goddamnit, boy,” the man growled back at him. Sol flinched at the man’s shift in tone; it felt as if her father was scolding her. “What has gotten into you today? You’ve been a proper wet blanket ever since we rode into town. You’ve barely eaten your lunch and now you’re being rude to Miss… Miss?”

Sol didn’t realise the man known as Dutch was asking for her name. “Oh, just Sol is fine,” she responded with a slight crack in her voice. Her head was still spinning from the fact that Arthur was sitting no more than five feet away from her. She caught herself gawking at him before he finally looked back at her.

Dutch grinned wide and pulled her in close to him, enough to wrap his arm around her hip. “Oh, how lovely, Miss Sol!” He was properly hairy; thick eyebrows and sideburns. With the sleeve of his shirt rolled up just below his elbow, his arm was coated with a layer of coarse black hair that reached beyond his wrist. Despite being pulled in close to him, he held onto the band of her apron without gripping onto her hip itself. He smelled faintly of tobacco, but it wasn’t overbearing. His hair was longer than Arthur’s, slicked back and curled at the nape of his neck.

“Annabelle isn’t going to be thrilled to see this,” someone said from behind both Dutch and Sol. Neither guest seemed surprised, so she assumed it to be a familiar voice. When she turned, she saw a slender gentleman with high cheekbones and greying hair, old enough to be her father. Compared to Dutch’s voice, this man looked a decade older than him though he sounded younger: higher-pitched, yet unassuming, smooth, suave even.

“There you are, Hosea,” Dutch said, immediately letting go of Sol. His smile didn’t falter at all, but this time he directed it to this older man, who took a seat between Dutch and Arthur at the table. “I was just telling Arthur here to stop being a tight-ass and eat his damn lunch.”

“That’s not it at all,” Arthur interjected. Sol felt invisible at this point – Hosea and Dutch started laughing amongst themselves and Arthur sulked, poking at the peas on his plate with a fork.

“Regardless,” Dutch said after composing himself. “Miss Sol here dropped her rag from above us and I merely retrieved it for her. My Annabelle would understand it as an act of kindness more than anything else.”

Hosea raised an eyebrow at the declaration and chuckled all the same. “If you say so, Dutch.” He reached his hand out to Sol, seemingly for a handshake. “That’s quite a botch you made. You trip over something up there, miss?”

Sol took his hand and shook it; Hosea smiled warmly. His grip was gentle but cool to the touch, despite the afternoon sun and his long-sleeve buttoned shirt. What a mismatched trio of men. Something told her these people weren’t related at all. Or, at the very least, she couldn’t see any resemblances to one another. If Dutch was the overconfident and cocksure side of a coin, the other would be this debonair and reassured man. And what would that make Arthur?

“I-I just wasn’t paying attention. I’m so sorry, Mr. Dutch,” she apologised once more. Dutch shook his head at the notion, but Sol still didn’t feel comfortable leaving them without some sort of compensation. Was it because she genuinely felt sorry? Or did she want an excuse to stay longer, to be around Arthur? Could that even be possible? These questions were at war with each other in her head. “Can I at least get you another drink, on the house? Even if not for you, maybe for your friends?” She casually looked at Arthur, who stared at Sol with a scowl and his chin perched on his palm. It looked like he wanted nothing more than to get out of there, and fast.

“Not necessary, miss. The only thing we’ll ask of you is merely to tell us where exactly we are. Y’know -- what to expect here, nearest doctor, grocer… That sorta thing,” Dutch said. “We’ve only just arrived, and we expect to be here a while, so.” Hosea nodded in agreement and took Arthur’s third beer bottle to sip from, who shrugged and continued to poke at his food, ignoring the conversation happening without him.

Why was he acting like such a child? It mystified Sol that the man that she thought was so alluring and mysterious turned out to be a scapegrace after all. ‘ _Wanna run away and be a criminal with me?’_ She recalled his gravelly voice, the touch of his weathered hands on her, his eyes flickering blue against the glow of the lantern. And now, it left her. All her musings, amplified in the last few weeks since he arrived and disappeared, felt wasted the moment they reunited. Nothing had happened. So why did she feel slighted?

“Actually, Mr. Dutch,” she started, unflinching in her newfound drive. “My father owns the local grocery shop. I’m more than happy to show you around and get you anything you might need.” She glanced quickly at Arthur, whose eyebrows shot up at her offer. He looked like he was about to explode. Before he could interject, she continued, “Of course, when you’re all done with any business you have currently, eating lunch, all of that. I would hate to impede on y’all’s time, especially if you’re already busy—”

“Nonsense! That sounds great!” Dutch said in his tumultuous voice, nearly knocking Sol off her feet. “We’ll get our affairs in order here and meet you at the door. How’s that sound, Miss Sol?”

 _It sounds great,_ Sol thought. Between Dutch’s excitement, Hosea’s nod of approval, and Arthur’s burying his face into his palm, she felt relief. Is this what it meant to be petty? She had never been the type to wish for revenge, but this felt right. As she made her way upstairs to alert her mother of this development, a tightness in her throat loosened, her feelings heightened by the indignation she now felt toward Arthur.

 _Well, isn’t that unfortunate,_ she thought. _He’s made his bed, and now he gets to lie in it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
> ✳ ¿Te sientes enferma?: “Do you feel sick?  
> ✳ Estoy bien: “I’m fine.”  
> ✳ No te preocupes: “Don’t worry yourself.”  
> ✳ mija: a colloquialism for "mi hija" which means "my daughter"


	5. Ace of Pentacles (Reversed)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y’all! Thanks for your patience while this chapter was being written. Soon after I published the last one, ya girl went full-time! Which means my days off are gone, & time spent on writing went kaput too. Sometimes I can get away with writing here & there at work, but children are taxing & beg for a lot of attention. Most days I can only get a few sentences in, while others I nearly finish an entire page.  
> That being said, I finally threw in some finishing touches during the holiday break, & edited it up until yesterday. I wish there was a way to post bulletins to keep y’all updated & aware of what’s happening in terms of working on the chapter… I’ll try to be consistent with updating once a month from now on, but I can’t guarantee anything. Everything is out of whack because of these unfortunate circumstances… I hope you enjoy, regardless. I spent a lot of time on this chapter, here & there, so hopefully it was worth it.  
> ALSO: if any of y’all have any head-canons regarding what Bessie Matthews & Annabelle look like, please let me know in the comments! Next chapter will have them in there & I’d like to know what people think they looked like back in the late 1880s. I think I have an idea in my brain, but I’m curious of y’alls opinions too. Thanks!!
> 
> ✳SOL, HARMSTEAD, & CATHCART & CO. GENERAL STORE ARE FICTIONAL. EVERYTHING RED DEAD REDEMPTION-RELATED BELONGS TO ROCKSTAR✳

instability – stinginess - bad investments

✳ ❖ ✳

The trio of men were, as Sol expected, much taller than her, but somehow, when she stepped out of the hotel, she felt very small opposite them. They were talking with one another, Arthur not paying attention and watching horse carriages meander as Hosea laughed at something Dutch said. When Sol approached them, they stopped their chuckling to look at her while Arthur continued to stare at his boots.

“Everything in order, miss?” Hosea asked with a smile still on his face. Dutch seemed happy too; they must have been talking about something funny. Arthur momentarily glanced in her direction to give her an unimpressed frown – Sol didn’t much care for that – before going back to observing.

“All set, Mr. Hosea,” she responded. “My mother is cleaning upstairs so I just had to let her know I was going next door.” She stepped out onto the dirt road and Hosea followed. Dutch nudged Arthur.

“Next door?” Dutch called out. Sol stopped out in the middle of the street and the men observed the building in front of them – a two-story building with a small overhang and a sign that said “CATHCART & CO. GENERAL STORE”. Dutch snickered at the sight. “Oh my, what a long trek you had us go on.” She smiled and led them to the pair of hitching posts situated to the side of the storefront.

“I’m sorry I don’t have proper seats for you, but please rest your oh so weary bones while I let my father know y’all are here,” she said, feeling sly and clever as the two older men smirked at her sarcasm. Surely, they should have noticed that the shop was right next door, but Sol didn’t think much of it; she assumed they weren’t paying attention, even though their younger partner knew. Arthur, speaking of which, didn’t seem to care either way, but she kept her attention on confirming what exactly she was going to say to her father.

Sol left the trio and entered the shop. Sol’s father was sitting on a stool behind the counter, writing in a ledger. Joaquín was a muscular man with tanned skin, darker than his wife and daughter combined. His hair, as dark and thick as oil, was pulled back in a small bun and tied at the nape of his neck. His eyebrows were thick and wiry, as if they had a life of their own. When the door creaked open, Joaquín raised his eyes from his ledger to see who entered, but relaxed once he saw his daughter.

“Ah, Mari,” he said, his accent thicker than his wife. He seemed to smile but it was hard to tell with the massive moustache and beard blocking his lips. “What are you doing here?”

“I got bored of cleaning rooms,” Sol sighed, approaching the counter to rest on it. “I told mamá that I’d come back here and help.”

“Ah, _bueno_ , go ahead and get the shipment out on the floor, okay?” He motioned behind him, though Sol knew that there were several boxes of produce next to the inventory shelves from almost running into them in the dark that morning. 

“Yeah, of course. But I actually brought some people from the hotel who wanted to meet you,” she said, a bit nervous for what may transpire now that she said that. Her father’s face fell to a sullen expression, a look Sol recognised as skepticism.

“Marisol,” his voice low and his eyes on the door behind her. “What did we say about talking to _los desconocidos?_ Let alone bringing them here.”

“Papí, I know. Trust me, I do. I swear that these men don’t mean any harm.”

“ _Men?!_ ” he blurted, now clearly heated. Joaquín stepped out from behind the counter, but Sol moved closer to block him from the door.

She understood her father’s apprehension to trust a man in this town. Mr. Cathcart was the only one who treated their family with any semblance of kindness, but that was one man out of many in Harmstead. Not many people, if anyone, in this part of the south-east like the idea of a brown person doing anything more than manual labor, let alone own a building. If anyone got the brunt of the insults, abuse, and death threats from people in town, it was without a doubt Joaquín. Regardless, Sol was a sixteen-year-old girl – she knew it was unlikely her father would be okay with his daughter hanging around men at least twice her age.

“I asked mamá already,” she said softly, not trying to combat her father. “They’re not from here; they just moved in and they wanted to see who the town grocer is.” That was a lie – she told her mother that she was coming by to work at the shop instead, but not that she was going to play tour guide. She made a mental note to find a way out of that in case it came up later at dinner.

He shook his head, his forehead lines wrinkling. “Mari, we have talked about this. We don’t trust anyone in this town outside of family.” He stepped back to his counter, firm in his answer. “If you want to help me in the store, I will allow that. But I do not want to speak to anyone unless they’re a customer.”

“ _Pero papí_ ,” she pleaded. “They’re right outside. And they’re more than likely going to buy something. I promise you, or else I will work here for the rest of the week. Please!” She glanced at the window behind them and motioned at the figures lounging against the hitching posts, laughing again with each other.

Her father groaned and burrowed his eyes into his hands. They slid up his forehead and to the back of his head, pulling his forehead as he did it. “ _Dios mío, dame_ _paciencia_ ,” he muttered to himself, then he freed his face to see Sol more clearly. “Fine, but if I feel something is off about them, I will kick them out and you owe me a week of work here.”

A wave of relief washed over Sol’s entire body and she relaxed her shoulders. She didn’t even get a chance to thank him before stepping out of the front door. When it shut behind her, Dutch and Hosea were already looking at her, though the latter was the only one not smiling back at her.

“Well?” Hosea asked, but Dutch was already getting up off the post and walking towards the door.

“What do you think, old man?” Dutch laughed, and that made Hosea smile too. They both chuckled and Sol sighed, relieved that they weren’t annoyed at the amount of time they were waiting.

“Thank y’all for waiting,” she said, almost breathlessly. They waved her off, probably from being too formal. “Be gentle with him – he’s still a little uneasy from random strangers wanting to meet him. He’s had a few bad experiences.” Sol realised that Arthur was nowhere to be found.

“Oh, not a problem, Miss Sol!” Hosea said with a beaming smile. “We’ve run into plenty of bad apples ourselves. Trust me that we empathise with your father. Think of us as… foreseeable business partners!” With that, he walked side-by-side Dutch into the shop. Sol followed behind. She peeked around the immediate area to see if she could find Arthur, but to no avail.

When she walked in, Dutch and Hosea were already at the counter talking to Joaquín, who stood there unmoved with his arms crossed. Her father’s eyes met hers and he cocked his head towards the inventory shelves around the corner. He wanted her to work on shelving the new shipment’s items. She obeyed and made her way behind the wall, rifling through the box to pick out what first should be put away. If she worked quiet enough, she could listen in on what the men were saying.

“My name is Dutch Vonderhorst, and this is my associate…”

“Hosea. Hosea Williams.”

“Yes, and we’ve just arrived to this town. We asked your daughter, Miss Marisol, if she could point us in the direction of the local grocer.”

“We were hoping to make some purchases from your wonderful establishment, Mr…”

There was a moment of silence before she heard her father say sternly, “Avilés. Joaquín Avilés.”

“Mr. Avilés!” Hosea laughed. Sol imagined by the way he laughed, maybe he stretched forward on the counter to shake her father’s hand. “It’s a pleasure! If you don’t mind me asking where you’re from? I met a man from overseas once, he reminds me a lot of you. Very charming guy, a bit of a belly. Diego… Diego, what’s his last name?”

Sol practically choked on her own breath at the name Diego. Before she could formulate a thought, she heard her father. “Diego Maldonado?”

“Yes!” Hosea exclaimed. Dutch joined in with his laughter. “What a funny man, he practically outdrank us at the bar the other night. We were close to the port you see…”

She didn’t bother to catch whatever else Hosea wanted to say. Diego was a long-time family friend who had visited about a week prior to Arthur crashing into the shop. It felt almost invasive; she could have sworn her father brought him up last night at dinner. Or was it last week? Regardless, she felt as if her heart fell into her stomach and turned everything upside down inside her body. Nervous was the wrong word to use, but apprehensive seemed right. She tried to recall when Diego had mentioned he was leaving the state. Why did she have to ignore her parents’ conversation that night?

Sol stood up from bending over the box, suddenly feeling dizzy. Maybe the darkness of the room was getting to her. She tip-toed out the back door of the shop, slow enough to where it wouldn’t creak and alarm the men boisterously talking amongst each other, and sighed when her eyes met with the vibrant blue of the sky above her.

She took a deep breath to compose herself and smelled the faint scent of a wafting cigarette. Following where it was coming from, she turned and found Arthur, leaning against the side of the opposite building in the alleyway. Maybe he still felt nervous about being back in Harmstead after all; he stuck pretty close to the wall and turned his head away from the main road when people walked past. She knocked on the wall softly to get his attention without alarming him, and when he turned his head to face her, she approached him and laid back on the opposite wall to face him.

“Being around me is that bad, huh,” Sol said. She watched her boots make imprints in the dirt. Any form of greenery was scarce in Harmstead outside of trees and the occasional patch of grass; The only real places you could ever see nature taking its course were in the cracks between the ground and buildings, where one could find weeds sprouting forth in hopes of reaching the sun.

Arthur sighed, a drag of smoke wafting from his nose as he adjusted his position on the wall. He looked away from her. “No, that ain’t it,” he said with a scratch in his throat. 

“Then what is it?” Sol spat, all at once not caring for privacy. Arthur scowled at her heightened tone of voice, but she continued: “Forgive me if I assumed you wanted nothing to do with me earlier. If I didn’t have half of a brain, I would’ve thought we never met after all!”

“We didn’t!” he snapped. He pivoted hard in her direction. His brows furrowed into a deep glare. She wasn’t expecting Arthur to reflect her energy back at her. He practically bit his cigarette and it shook around in his mouth as he talked. “As far as everyone else is concerned, we didn’t. I shouldn’t even be back here, Hosea and the rest of us too. But Dutch and his goddamn grand ideas…”

There was palpable tension as silence crept in between them. Sol still felt aggrieved, but as she watched Arthur take a deep breath and pinch the inner corners of his eyes, she knew immediately his aggravation had nothing to do with her. When he sighed and propped himself back against the wall, she relaxed too, looking past him at the street where people walked along. Some looked over, probably curious where the noise came from, but looked away after seeing no bother.

The quiet between the two settled, Sol almost enjoying it, but her mind couldn’t help but wander into questions: Why was Arthur so agitated with Dutch? She recalled eavesdropping onto their conversation before she knew it was Arthur on the other side. Something about someone not remembering his name or what he looked like. Did Dutch mean the police? That would explain why she never saw any bounty posters – maybe the case didn’t get very far or maybe they realised there was nothing for them to gain from it. Smoke permeated the air once again as Arthur took another drag of his cigarette, and she remembered where she was.

“So,” she began. Maybe acting soft will get him to open up a bit. “What is Dutch’s grand idea? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Which I do,” he immediately responded, giving her no time to retort. “It’s nothin’ that concerns you, Sol.” There was a flutter in Sol’s stomach when he called her that; maybe he’s acting soft too. “I thought the agreement was to never see each other again.”

Her nerves caught up to her after all and, all at once, she felt fidgety where she stood. “I… did. You’re right.” _I can’t just tell him I changed my mind because of one conversation we had, despite everything that happened before it._

“And now?” Sol became conscious of the distance between her and Arthur, who was putting out the cigarette with the underside of his boot. From this close, she could see stubble growing in and patches of dirt here and there. It looks like he hasn’t bathed in weeks. She noticed the gash on his lip from last time had healed, but his chin scarred and was visible despite his growing bristles.

Sol composed her nerves and straightened her posture. “I promise you, you’re not as scary as you think you are.”

Arthur groaned like a teenager and rolled his eyes at her. “This again?” He went to take his cigarette from his mouth, but remembered it wasn’t there. He reached for his satchel. “I’m tellin’ you, it would be in our – YOUR – best interests to keep our distance. We ain’t exactly the most invitin’ of folk.”

Once it was quiet enough, they could hear her father and Dutch explode into laughter. About what exactly was anyone’s guess at this point, but it didn’t stop Sol from smirking at Arthur, who just rolled his eyes as he pulled out a box of cigarettes.

“Are you including Mr. Dutch and Mr. Hosea? Because they’ve been more kind to me than most people in this wretched town. I would venture to say I think my father would agree with me.”

Arthur didn’t respond right away, though his eyes squinted like he had the words ready in his mouth. Instead, he lit a match and held it to his cigarette, inhaling sharply. From up close, Arthur honestly didn’t look as old as Sol thought he was when they first met. She still couldn’t understand the appeal of inhaling tobacco smoke, and she tried to convince herself that this would, in fact, make him less charming to her.

“I’m serious, Miss Sol,” he finally spoke, wafts of smoke swirling out between his mouth and through his nostrils. _So much for not being one for formalities,_ she thought.

“Just ‘Sol’ is fine, Arthur.”

“Between you an’ me, this is how Dutch operates.” Arthur peeled himself off the wall and faced away from the main road. He stepped closer to Sol, but from the way he pulled his hat lower to obscure his face she acknowledged that he was trying to be covert. “He’s kind to a fault, then tries to get somethin’ out of you. An’ Hosea is good with words, makes you feel stupid talkin’ to him after a while. Trust me, you don’t want to be mixed up with us.”

Sol could still hear Dutch laughing on the other side of the wall, and Arthur’s head shaking made it clear that he did too. “I can’t really believe all of that considering I can hear your old man still cozying up to mine.”

It was Arthur’s turn to laugh. She didn’t understand how he could take in all of that smoke and not cough profusely. One time, she found a cigarette left on the bar at the hotel and took it home. When she tried to smoke it herself, all it took was one puff for her throat to catch fire and she swore off tobacco for the rest of her life. In any case, he rested against the wall, seemingly back to being comfortable and not bothered. “‘Old man?’ That’s funny. Dutch and I ain’t related. Neither is Hosea, none of us are.”

Sol figured that much, at least. She said that to get more information. Their relation was common sense – they didn’t look like they came from the same family, let alone act like relatives. That brought up another question for her: what brought all three of them together? Arthur spoke of Dutch and Hosea as if they were his father. So how long has this arrangement been going on? She caught herself wanting to be meddlesome but knew that she wouldn’t learn anything more than what he’s willing to bring up on his own volition. She had to try anyway.

“Oh yeah?” It would rattle her endlessly unless she did. “Business associates, then?” Sol leaned forward in hope of seeing his expression under the brim of his hat, but he caught her and shook his head before she could get any more ideas.

“Nonono, that’s all you’re gettin’ outta me,” Arthur teased. Sol couldn’t tell if his taunts were genuine or if he was getting annoyed with her; somehow either answer made her feel a bit anxious. She noticed he wasn’t done with his cigarette and he still threw it to the ground to put it out. But why did it feel like the latter? “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he began, fixing his hat as he talked. “I think we all have overstayed our welcome.”

He didn’t have a chance to step toward the door before it swung open, Dutch hanging off the doorframe to see Arthur and beaming wide as he did it. “There you are!” he said. Hosea popped up behind him, waving as if he knew Arthur was back there all along. “We just finished talking to Señor Avilés.” Dutch made eye contact with Sol. “Miss, he was looking for you. Said something about wanting you to load the wagon? We bought quite a few things.”

Oops. Her father must have been irritated that she wasn’t doing what she said she was going to do. She’d just have to hear about it later. Her neck tinged with the heat of embarrassment, and she hoped her collar wouldn’t give her away. “Not a problem. When does he intend on leaving with y’all?”

Dutch and Hosea each raised an eyebrow. “Ah, he said you would be driving the wagon with us,” Hosea said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
> ✳ bueno: "good"  
> ✳ los desconocidos: "strangers"  
> ✳ Pero papí: "But daddy"  
> ✳ Dios mío, dame paciencia: "My God, give me patience"


End file.
